


Restraint

by Misdemeanor1331



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Chastity Device, Cock Cages, Consensual Kink, Consensual Sex, Dom Hermione Granger, F/M, Face Slapping, Femdom, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Professor Draco Malfoy, Professor Hermione Granger, Spanking, Sub Draco Malfoy, Switching, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, male chastity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28033461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: In a rare role reversal, Draco agrees to be the submissive for a scene. But what Hermione has planned for him may be more than he can handle.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 42
Kudos: 187
Collections: Dirty Festivus 2020





	Restraint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elle_Morgan_Black](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elle_Morgan_Black/gifts).



> Thanks to Tridogmom for hosting Dirty Festivus 2020 and giving me an excuse to practice my smut. My giftee is Elle_Morgan_Black. I wanted to do a different spin on the kinks she provided by playing with Dom!Hermione and Sub!Draco. I hope you like it! All the love to my beta, dreamsofdramione, for keeping my spelling errors in check and for the GORGEOUS aesthetic! All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> This creation is based on characters and situations from the Harry Potter universe. No money is being made, and no copyright, trademark infringement, or offense is intended.

**Restraint**

They sleep separately.

They always do before a scene. It’s easier for both of them, something they’d learned through years of practice, trial and error. It gives Hermione the separation she needs, allowing her to cultivate an objectivity that’s hard to come by as a dedicated professor.

It gives Draco a chance to think, to understand what he wants and why he wants it. He has to prepare himself.

Fortunately, even though they’re unquestionably and irrevocably _together_ , they still maintain separate quarters. His are in the dungeons, just below the lake’s waterline, cold, dark, and remote. He misses the lofty view and occasional drafts of the seventh floor, but his bed is comfortable enough.

Draco draws the blankets to his chest and turns onto his side to stare out the window. Occasionally, glimmers of bioluminescence cut through the lake’s dark waters. It’s a reminder, he supposes, of the depths contained in every important space. Those dark, haunting places that only a few people have the privilege to see and, even then, never for long.

It’s temporary—an _opportunity_.

And he’d be a fool not to study it when given the chance.

He falls asleep to the thought, hoping it will make tomorrow easier.

Deep down, he knows it won’t.

* * *

The first note arrives before dawn. Draco sees it when he wakes: standard memo size, dappled in faint, watery sunlight. His name is written in script imperfect from disuse but no less commanding.

They’d arranged the whole thing in notes. The missives were sent via owl and elf, secreted in books and hidden beneath breakfast plates. They were official communications, respected by both parties. It was easier that way. Far less challenging for him to read and revise the terms on paper than to discuss them aloud.

Draco knows it’s about vulnerability. _His, not hers_.

Hermione is an open book, a standing invitation for souls in search of blank pages onto which the next chapter of their lives could be written. He’d taken refuge there and plotted out a future—one that included her. But he still struggles to give her the same level of access to himself.

It is safer to deliver his desires by proxy. He could imagine her reactions, rather than witness and process their implications live. Intrigue, annoyance, disgust, derision… He’d be spared the guilt of displeasing her or the embarrassment of a misstep. A request taken too far may prompt a knee-jerk refusal face to face. In text, she could soften the rejection, twist it into something his fragile ego could withstand.

Hermione understands his quirk; she wouldn’t have agreed to the practice otherwise. And, though they’ve never discussed it, Draco sometimes wonders if she shares his preference. There’s a cold precision in the written word, an opportunity for accuracy obtained without the need to adjust based on perceived emotional response. Another way for her to achieve objectivity.

They talk plenty afterwards, anyway. They debrief, they discuss, they laugh, and they reminisce. But the planning is its own ritual.

 _Breakfast in the Great Hall_ , the note reads. _A full English. I’ll be watching._

His skin prickles at the promise, and his morning erection bobs with interest. Draco knows better than to masturbate today. Hermione will ask, and even if he were able to lie to her convincingly, he wouldn’t want to.

He dresses for the day in his standard Potioneer robes: black and billowing everywhere but the sleeves, which are tight to his arms so as not to trail across a cauldron’s surface.

His presence in the Great Hall attracts attention; he and Hermione have cultured a habit of breakfasting together in her quarters before heading off to their respective classrooms. Whispers break out at the House tables—theories on what trouble could be brewing in their version of paradise. Draco ignores them and wonders which of his colleagues have an inkling of the truth. He catches Neville Longbottom’s eyes. As the Herbology Professor and this year’s Head of Gryffindor House, he has seen his fair share of teenage indiscretions. Nevertheless, his cheeks flush red before he drops his eyes back to his paper.

At least one, then. Draco bites his cheeks to suppress a smile.

He takes his seat near the High Table’s end and begins to fill his plate, summoning floating tureens of eggs and baked beans, platters of bacon and sausage, a rack of toast and a pot of strawberry preserves. He piles his plate high and risks a glance down the table.

His heart jumps when he sees her. Professor Hermione Granger, too preoccupied with her tea and this month’s copy of _Gamp’s Guide_ —a Transfiguration newsletter that begs her for research abstracts each summer—to notice him.

It’s a ruse. He knows it’s a ruse, and yet it prickles at him. Draco doesn’t like being ignored. He sampled anonymity in the beginning of his Eighth Year and found that silent skulking suited him poorly. It’s not like he needs to be the center of attention all the time, but he does need to be acknowledged. And this morning, Hermione cannot be bothered.

But she knows he’s looking. There’s no other reason for her to reach a hand to the top of her head and pull out her hair stick. His mind blanks as her curls spill free of their confinement. They frame her cheeks and cascade across her shoulders, a riot of brown that brings to mind cinnamon, chocolate, and silk.

The jam jar clinks against his plate, impatient, and Draco tears his eyes away from her. He focuses on his meal, even when he feels the pressure of her gaze. He makes sure to place his soiled linen napkin next to his empty plate so she can verify his compliance.

Hermione had made it clear that disobedience would bring consequences. What those consequences would be were left deliciously vague, but Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to tempt her. Not with breakfast, anyway. There would be better ways to earn a punishment, ways that would bring far more satisfaction than leaving behind a half-eaten piece of toast.

* * *

Draco’s last class of the day leaves, his Seventh Years filing out in their usual lunchtime rush. No sooner does the dungeon door close than a second note appears on his desk.

 _Salad_ , it reads. _Water._

The meal appears next: a plate of greens topped with chicken breast, green apple slices, dried cherries, candied walnuts, bleu cheese, and balsamic vinaigrette. Beside it sits a carafe of cold water. He works while he eats, looking over his notes and follow-ups from his morning classes and absently grading a few First Year assignments. His plate—clean, of course—sinks back through his desk, and Draco rises to use the loo and wash his hands.

When he returns, there’s another note.

 _Wear it_.

A cold shiver runs through him. He closes his eyes and lets the note fall from his fingers and onto his desk. He braces himself for what he knows is coming, but all the mental preparation in the world doesn’t dull the dread of actually _seeing_ the thing.

His cock cage.

They’d ordered it from a German manufacturer a year ago, when Hermione had first admitted an interest in orgasm denial and chastity play. It’s a bespoke device, tailored to his measurements for safety, and constructed of surgical-grade steel for cleanliness. He’d tried it on once before to verify both fit and comfort, but this is the first time they’ve used it in earnest.

Draco fists his hands. He _agreed_ to this. Planned for it. He has no Friday afternoon classes and has made it clear to his students that he’s unavailable for office hours, citing the need to replenish the Hospital Wing’s stores and plan next week’s lessons.

But seeing it is different.

Part of him wants to scramble for an excuse, a reason to avoid being put in this position.

Part of him knows that all it would take is a word—their safeword, _Quidditch_ —to end the whole thing.

Part of him knows Hermione wouldn’t mind. She would carry on loving and respecting him. She would grant him a second chance if he wanted or, if he didn’t, a promise to never broach chastity play with him again.

He picks up the cage. It’s heavier than he remembers; the welds in the metal rings feel terribly final. Draco glances at his office door, half expecting to see her there. His cock twitches at the thought of her watching, at the thought she might be imagining his reaction, thinking about the mechanics of it.

And that’s what decides for him, in the end. The frightened parts of him want to run from his challenge, but the whole of him knows she’s worth submitting to. The notes he can rationalize as favors, acts of kindness that neither hurt nor inconvenience him to follow.

The cage is far more than that.

The cage is true submission. By donning it, he’s surrendering control of his body—to her. He’s trusting her judgment, her timeline of their shared pleasure.

And he’s proving that he can bend. The uncompromising professor, the intractable boyfriend, the strict dominant… These roles are comfortable, and he knows how to play them. Yet he is not a monolith. He can do more— _be_ more—and what better reason is there than for her?

Draco double checks the locks on his classroom door and stands. He taps a light sequence on the distillation equipment behind his desk and waits patiently as the secret door rotates him into his living room. He shucks off his robes, drops his trousers, closes his eyes, and thinks of the Minister, willing his half-hearted erection into non-existence.

The cage slips apart easily. Another shiver runs through him as he fits the first ring around the base of his scrotum, the metal cold against his warm skin. He adjusts so that no loose skin gets caught, then slides the cage itself over his penis. The two parts join with a _snap_ , and Draco braces himself against the mantlepiece. The fit is snug, but not uncomfortable.

Not yet, anyway.

He pulls his clothes back on, grateful he’d chosen a tight pair of shorts for the day, and travels back through the trick door to his classroom. The weight around his genitals is not unpleasant. Noticeable, certainly, but not distracting enough that he can’t work through it. He checks the clock, and his stomach sinks. Draco doesn’t know exactly when Hermione will summon him, but he is certain it won’t be until the evening.

Best to lose himself in the brews, if he can. It will be a long afternoon otherwise.

* * *

Around suppertime, when most students are gathered in the Great Hall, the final note arrives.

It’s both a summons and a mercy: the cage is driving him mad. His frustration has been building all afternoon. The restriction, the inconvenience, and the strange sensation all worked to amp his temper into a dudgeon.

Submission is a faraway thought as he storms through the castle, taking the long way to avoid the Great Hall. He thinks about curling his fingers into Hermione’s hair and punishing her cruel mouth with a kiss. About taking her nipples between his teeth and working them until they’re tender. About edging her with his tongue until she’s crying for release. About filling her throat, her ass, and her cunt with his cock.

Draco’s stomach dips as he swells against the cage. The blood flow is artificially restricted; it’s uncomfortable and does nothing for his mood.

Nevertheless, he takes a moment to collect himself when he reaches her office door. Hermione won’t tolerate insolence tonight—he has to at least _try_ for obedience. Once he’s marginally sure that his face is no longer twisted in a scowl, he knocks.

The expression returns slowly over the minute she leaves him waiting outside her door.

He tightens his fist and debates the wisdom of knocking again. Just as he decides to risk it, he hears her.

“Enter.”

The door opens on its own, and Draco steps into Hermione’s office. He can count the number of times he’s seen it on one hand, only allowed in on these rare occasions where she takes control and wields the power.

He’s sure it would seem strange to others, but it works for them.

Their shared spaces are shared in truth, both in power and equality. But here, only Hermione holds the power. It is the one place in the castle where her authority is unquestionable and unchallenged, where she feels invincible and in control. It’s her sanctuary. Draco understands the need for her to keep it private, and understands what it means for her—what it requires _of_ her—to let him in.

The room is longer than it is wide, and there is a clear path from the door to her desk. He walks it, his shoes clicking against the floors, charmed to be wood instead of the castle’s ubiquitous gray stone. A small fire is lit in the grate on his left. A plush rug is unfurled before it, a soft, neutral color that mellows the claret and gold brocade of her sofa.

Her desk is an oak behemoth, stacked with neat piles of parchment and home to an assortment of quills, three inkpots, and several personal mementos. Bookshelves stand on either side of her desk, stacked full. The shelves would be sagging if not for the charms she’d cast. Behind her desk is a bay window, its mullioned glass panes blurring the Scottish sunset. The window seat has been upholstered with a plush cushion. The fabric has the sheen of velvet, and the dark red looks like the color of sin.

The idea of fucking her on its drifts through his consciousness. A pull in his gut follows soon after as his cock twitches impotently against the cage. He presses his teeth together, determined not to let his frustration show.

He can do this.

He clasps his hands and waits. Hermione’s quill scratches against a curl of parchment: an essay. Draco feels a moment of disbelief. She’d summoned him while _grading_ , as if he were a student that needed scolding for his lack of primary sources.

Hermione doesn’t notice his indignation. She remains focused on her work. Draco isn’t patient enough to count the seconds. He thinks it’s been five minutes, though with the fucking cage on, it feels like fifteen.

It gives him time to study her, to categorize her quirks and find new ways to love her, even as she tortures him with her apparent indifference. A brown curl loops around her ear, nearly doubling back on itself to circle her helix. Her fingers hold her quill loosely, her writing deft and light as the quill nib scratches along the limited margin space. She brushes the feather against her nose as she thinks and bites her lip as she double checks a figure near the essay’s introduction.

He tries not to get excited when she reaches the essay’s end. She writes her final comments in the blank inch at the bottom, punctuates them with a grade, and circles it with a flourish. A score in the mid-nineties; impressive work considering she’s a notoriously difficult grader.

“Did you lock the door?”

Hermione asks the question without looking at him. Instead, she re-rolls the scroll and sets it to the side atop an already sizable pile.

“Yes, Professor.”

She nods and busies herself with the quill next, wiping the remaining ink from its sharp tip.

“You received my notes?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“You enjoyed breakfast.”

“Breakfast, yes. Lunch…”

Her eyes snap to his, and it’s like a punch to the gut. A day without sharing her gaze and he’s already forgotten its power. Her eyes spark with danger, the brown depths warmed by the silent promise of surprise. Though he feels unsettled, Draco chances a smirk.

“What about lunch did you find unappealing?”

He glances down at his hands, folded in front of his crotch. “Come over here and feel for yourself.”

Her eyes widen at his cheek. “Sit,” she seethes.

A chair appears behind him, and he obeys. Languidly. Too at ease for her liking.

If Draco is riled by being ignored, then she’s riled by not being taken seriously. Though it’s not the role he’s supposed to fill today, tit for tat seems fair, considering the afternoon she’d given him. Besides, she’s always liked a challenge.

He makes himself comfortable—as much as having a metal contraption around one's manhood allows, anyway. He watches with absolute focus as Hermione stands, adjusts her robe, and circles the desk to face him. She leans against it and looks him over. Her eyes trail warmth across his skin. The physical sensation of it is uncanny.

“Did you masturbate today?”

“No, Professor.”

“Did you want to?”

He hesitates, just for a moment, but it’s long enough for her to press the sharp nib of a quill against the soft skin beneath his chin. The implement doesn’t snap. Hermione values quality over quantity, and he’d given her this particular quill in that spirit. It was fashioned from a Hippogriff feather, always stiff, always sharp, and very nearly unbreakable.

Hermione applies pressure, forcing his head to tilt up. His heart pounds.

“Did you want to?” she repeats.

“Yes, Professor.”

The quill retreats, and Hermione gives him an assessing gaze. She pops herself up onto her desk, and Draco misses her next command. He’s distracted by the sight of her legs. Legs covered in lacey, black stockings, which peek out from between the split of her robe.

She whips her hand at him, faster than a Snitch, and his head turns from the impact of the slap.

It’s like being set aflame. Adrenaline fires through his system, lighting him up from the inside. His senses spike, his eyes blow wide, and his heart—pounding steadily until now—begins to race.

Draco starts to rise from his chair, to grab her and remind her how the game is played, but she’s too quick. A snap of her fingers summons ropes from the chair’s arms and legs. They coil around his wrists and ankles like obedient serpents, holding him taut to the uncomfortable, straight-backed wood.

“Color?” Hermione’s question is soft, though her eyes are hard.

“Green.” Draco’s done more to her with less worry about her tolerances. This situation is special, though. Reversed. She doesn’t know his limits as well as she does her own.

Neither does he, really.

She nods once, then unclasps the robe. It falls from around her shoulders, and there’s a soft rustle of parchment as it pools on her desk. The skin of her chest is bare, her breasts barely contained by a black bra, her dusky nipples visible beneath the thin lace. Hermione crooks her finger, and the chair draws closer, close enough for her to prop her heels on his thighs.

 _Her heels_.

He should have looked there first for a hint of what the evening would hold. Hermione wears practical shoes while teaching and traversing the ever-changing castle. Her current selection—black, strappy, and with a thin spike for a heel—is significantly outside the norm.

The sharp points dig into his thighs. He tenses them to ease the pain, grimacing a wince. Her eyes widen. They ask a silent question, and he nods in response. He’s fine.

More than fine.

His eyes drift from her face to her crotch, spread wide before him. The stockings aren’t just a tease. She wears no skirt beneath her robe. Just a garter belt, which serves as a holster for her vinewood wand, and a pair of lacey knickers.

Crotchless knickers.

A soft swell of pink flesh presses between the gap, and his mind blanks as she brushes her fingers across it.

Her other hand whistles towards his cheek, striking him again, just as hard. Punishment for his straying gaze.

He tears his eyes away from her pussy. Reluctantly. Slowly. Not blatantly disobedient, but walking a very thin line.

“Apologies, Professor,” he says between a grin that he knows will infuriate her. “What was the question?”

Hermione leans forward. The spikes of her heels dig harder into his thighs as she shifts her weight. She stops when she’s nearly close enough to kiss, though Draco wouldn’t dare presume.

“Tell me what you wanted to do.” She’s clearly annoyed that she has to repeat the command. “Tell me what you would have thought about, if you had been allowed to touch yourself.”

His eyes drift south, but she catches his chin in firm fingers. “Eyes on mine until I tell you otherwise.” She lets him go, the motion somehow derisive. But it relieves the pressure from the twin pain points on his thighs, so he doesn’t antagonize her further.

“I woke up hard.” He keeps her gaze. “I wanted you but, absent your pert little cunt, I was prepared to settle for my hand. I thought about what I always think about: your lips around my cock.”

He sees her hand move and knows that she’s slipping it between her legs. His throat tightens.

The temptation to watch is strong. But his will is stronger.

Barely.

“I wanted you on your knees. I wanted my hand in your hair as I slid in and out of your mouth. I wanted you to take me deep as I came down your throat. I wanted you to swallow every drop, then clean me up with your tongue.”

“And I get nothing in this scenario?”

The pressure on his thighs increases as he admits the truth. “No, Professor.”

“You would have left me unsatisfied?”

“Yes, Professor.”

Hermione tilts her head to the side. “That’s not very polite, is it?”

“No, Professor.”

“You’re struggling,” she notes, correctly. “You want to look, don’t you?”

Draco nearly gasps. “Yes, Professor.”

“You may.”

He enjoys the journey: the perk of her nipples against the bra’s fabric, the soft skin of her stomach crossed by the line of her arm, the elegant cant of her wrist as she touches herself.

Hermione’s fingers are just as dextrous on her clit as they are on her quill. She dips a finger into her cleft and rocks forward against her palm. He barely feels the pressure against his thighs as she draws her fingers away. She rubs circles against her clit until her legs begin to tremble, then dips her fingers in again.

“Apologize,” she whispers.

He does. It’s automatic. Brainless. He’s not sure what he’s done wrong, but he’s fine shouldering the responsibility if it means getting closer to her cunt.

“ _Apologize like you mean it_.”

Draco’s left hand is suddenly free, and he doesn’t need to ask what she means. Hermione braces both hands behind her as he leans forward, pressing his lips to her pussy.

She’s warm and soft against his lips, wet and beautifully fragrant. There’s nothing he loves so much as the taste of her, the bitter honey spread on his tongue and smeared across his lips. He presses his tongue into her for a quick taste, then moves to suck and flick her clit. She freed his hand for a reason, after all.

His index finger slides into her easily. He plays with her, thrusting with one finger like that’s all he’s going to give her. Her breath hitches when he adds a second. Her walls press against him, the warm flesh tightening against his knuckles. He could add a third; she’s taken it before. But there’s no need.

He crooks his fingers and presses hard against the soft pad of skin just below her pubis. She jerks against him, moaning as he hits her G-spot. It doesn’t take long. He rubs against it, feeling her walls contract, paying attention to the pace of her breathing and the roll of her hips against his mouth. She lets him tease her, lets him draw it out, but not for long. Hermione hand fists in his hair as she holds him close.

“Draco…” His name is whispered along a panting breath. “Draco, now. _Now_.”

He curls his fingers, presses firmly, flicks his tongue, and she’s gone, shuddering beneath him, moaning his name between obscenities. She contracts around him, a rolling, prehistoric rhythm that he matches with the thrust and press of his hand.

Draco pulls away as she starts to relax, meeting her glazed eyes. He brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks away the taste of her, though he knows the shadow of her scent will linger throughout the following day. Blood suffuses her chest and cheeks. She looks undone, and Draco wonders if she’ll end the scene early.

But she pushes herself to sitting, removing her torturous heels from his thighs. The pain is secondary, heightened but not overcome by the excitement of what’s next.

“Apology accepted.” Hermione’s lips curl into a smile as she crosses her feet at the ankles and looks down at him. “In fact, I think you’ve earned a reward.”

A snap of her fingers releases the remaining ropes, which slither back into the chair for use another time.

“Stand, when you’re able,” she instructs. “Then strip.”

He obeys with measured intention, fighting the instinct to rush. He wants to be free of this thing, this _restraint_. His cock is swollen against it, pressing uncomfortably, and the pressure in his balls is greater than he’s ever felt.

But she is ever the inverse to his most selfish intentions. If he rushes, she’ll go slower.

His robe, his shoes, and socks. His shirt and trousers. Finally, his pants. He fights the urge to clasp his hands over his caged cock. He has to remind himself that she wants to see him like this: controlled and submissive, under her power in the most intimate of ways.

Hermione studies him in silence, her eyes once again trailing fire over his skin. She eases herself off the desk and circles him. Goosebumps prickle his skin when she stops behind him, and he flinches as her hands cup his hips. She presses herself against him, her belly warm against the cool skin of his rear.

“This is how I like you.” Her fingernails skim lightly over the front of his pelvis. “Controlled,” she whispers.

One hand settles over the cage. Draco shudders at the additional pressure, at the new warmth of her touch. He tenses as her other hand finds his sack.

“Obedient.”

She gives his balls a firm tug, and Draco’s knees weaken as pleasure floods his system.

He can’t take this anymore. “ _Please._ ”

Another sharp tug to his sack has him folding forward with a moan. He catches himself against the edge of her desk, breathing deeply through the sensation.

Pleasure, pain… He can’t distinguish between the two. He needs her, and he needs her now.

“Please, _Professor_.”

“Please, _what_?” Hermione’s fingers brush the head of his cock through the metal bars.

“Please let me go.”

“Turn around.” Draco hears the smile in her reply.

He does and watches with wide eyes as she sinks to her knees before him. He braces his hands on the edge of her desk as she presses her lips to the skin of his pubis.

“Are you ready?” She looks at him, brown eyes wide, sparkling with mischief.

He breathes a laugh. “Are you?”

Hermione simply smiles. She drops her gaze and presses her lips to the union of the cock cage, where the two pieces were joined with a seamless weld. She whispers a spell, and with a quiet _click_ , the pieces separate.

His heart beats wildly as she frees him from the cage, his breath coming in bellows like he’s just run a marathon. His cock stiffens the moment the metal leaves his skin, his erection expanding to its full length and girth.

Finally, the paradigm has been righted. Gone is the imposed submission and the expectation of obedience.

He’s back in control.

Draco fists a hand into Hermione’s hair and drives his cock into her mouth. The sound of her surprise is muffled, but she takes him fully. Her jaw and throat relax, and she braces herself against his thighs as he moves her head up and down his length. The heat of her mouth is like plunging into a hot spring on a cold winter’s day, and the flick of her tongue makes him tremble.

Much more of this and he’ll finish in her mouth. She deserves it for what she’s put him through today. But he deserves more than the soft pleasure of her mouth.

He deserves her cunt.

Pulling his cock from her is a test of fortitude, and she looks at him in question as he guides her to standing. His answer is to grab her by the neck and pull her into a punishing kiss. He nips at her as he backs her across the office, his fingers unrelenting as they push down the straps and cups of her bra. He rolls her breasts in his hands and pinches her nipples, drawing them into stiff peaks and swallowing the soft sounds of her pleasure.

When they reach the window, he turns her around and hefts her onto the upholstered seat. Her ass is level with his hips, the swollen lips of her sex peeking from her crotchless knickers.

“You’re a tease, Granger,” he growls. He swats her rear and smirks when she flinches. The skin of her ass cheek turns pink. “A bloody tease.” Another swat, a faint hiss of pleasure.

He could punish her all night, draw this out until her ass is raw and her cunt is dripping for him. But he doesn’t have the stamina. He’s desperate for her— _she’s made him desperate_ —and he needs release.

As if sensing the change in him, Hermione braces her hands against the windows. Draco pumps two fingers into her, gathering her slickness and spreading it over his head and shaft.

Then he splits her apart.

He penetrates her with a single, deep thrust that tears a cry from her lips and makes her back bow into an arch. He gives her a moment to adjust, then begins to drive into her. His thrusts are hard and sharp, each hitting just a fraction deeper, stimulating that secret spot within her that can release her pleasure a second time.

“Draco…”

He watches her reflection in the glass. Her eyes are shuttered in ecstasy, her lips parted, his tits bouncing with each slap of their skin. He holds her hip with one hand, steadying her as he bends over her back, changing the angle and wrapping a hand around to her front to flick her clit.

Her back arches, and she moans his name again. He feels her start to tense, and it sends him over the edge.

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck, _Hermione_.”

The orgasm rocks through him, a deep, whole-body shudder as his hips jerk forward. She cries his name, clenches and rocks with him as he comes inside of her.

Time slips away. The feel of her around him, beneath him, _with him_ is all consuming. Draco is sure there is no greater pleasure than what they give each other, no greater love than what they share.

They come down together. Their tension melts away as their bodies soften, languid with pleasure and exhaustion. Draco eases out of her and presses three fingers to her sensitive cleft, whispering a spell to clean her up and prevent conception.

Gently, he helps her stand. Hermione grabs his cock cage from her desk—it looks so harmless now—and takes his hand.

From the bookshelf to her left, she pulls at a book with a red spine. A secret latch unlocks, revealing a draughty set of stairs lit with golden light. He enjoys the view as he follows her up.

The stairway opens into the living area of Hermione’s quarters: a warm, comfortable space that feels like home in a way Malfoy Manor never did. They pass her kitchen, the modest table set for two, the red wine already decanted and breathing. They pass her bed, large and freshly made with sheets that smell like a spring morning.

They end in the master bathroom, where a tub big enough for four people waits for them. Steam rises from its surface. Peppermint, lavender, rosemary, and lemon hang in the air, oils and soothing balms added to the water to ease their aches.

Draco steps in first and reaches out to steady her as she joins him. They sink into the water together, sharing winces and quiet laughter as the heat hits their sensitized flesh. Once they’re settled, cold bowls of cut melon and fresh berries, a tall carafe of cool water, and two glasses appear on the tub’s wide edge.

Hermione reaches for his face and cups his cheeks with gentle hands. “Are you okay?”

He turns his head to kiss her palm. “Better than okay. You?”

“I’m good,” she says. Nevertheless, her brows pull together, and her eyes search his for the lie. “I know it’s hard for you to switch. I always worry I’ll go too far, that it will be too much…”

He leans forward and kisses her tenderly. “It’s never too much.”

In fact, with Hermione, it’s never enough.

They had started as a fling. A strictly physical connection as they finished their Eighth Year of Hogwarts and remained at the castle for their apprenticeships. He should have known that all the time spent with her—studying in the library, sneaking out for Samhain, sharing meals and frustrations and victories—would lead to love.

At first, he’d been afraid to commit to her. Afraid he’d grow bored or complacent. But they’ve been together for years now, and every day he spends with her is somehow better than the last. It defies logic, but Draco doesn’t examine the phenomenon too closely. Better to live within it than attempt to dissect it.

They finish their bath together, chatting and decompressing and feeding each other fruit. They apply salve to each other’s bruises and laugh over invented excuses, outlandish stories that explain how, exactly, D-shaped marks the size of Hermione’s thumbnail wound up in the center of Draco’s thighs.

They don joggers and soft shirts. Hermione ties her hair back in a messy bun. Draco runs his fingers through his hair and calls it good. They share a meal, a bottle of wine, and the most perfect piece of chocolate cake.

And when they sleep, they sleep together.

They always do after a scene.

**The End**


End file.
